


(I'm an) Invisible Disaster

by keroseneSteve



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF!Natasha, Bodyguard AU, Caring!Natasha, Emotional Baggage Everywhere, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Harm to Children, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony, Hurt/Comfort, JARVIS is best, Kidnapping, Tony Feels, Tony!Whump, baggage, kid!Tony, undergoing editing as we speak, what an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1468318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keroseneSteve/pseuds/keroseneSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After barely managing to walk away from his most recent kidnapping, a young Tony Stark decides he needs help. Help comes in the form of a certain redheaded ex-spy playing bodyguard for a ten year old.</p><p>Or, Natasha and Tony through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How it starts.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angel1972](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel1972/gifts), [gallardoshoes (simplecoffee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplecoffee/gifts).



> So, the song the title is based on is Ghost, by Ingrid Michaelson. Also, the first prompt that inspired this (and entirety of my fill so far -- don't read that! It's being cleaned up here) can be found here: http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/17613.html?thread=41613773t41613773 while the second one is lost to me... on whatever the hell page the previous prompt is on. 
> 
> I feel like I should tell you I've been sitting on this since January. I started this fill on avengerkink and haven't updated since February, even though I desperately want to. Readers on AO3 seem to be supportive, though. :') I'd really appreciate it if you gave me some feedback! It'll help get me started again; I would feel so terrible if I just abandoned this AU forever.

Tony is nine years, eleven months, and fourteen days old. Tony has a black eye, a broken arm, three toes in tiny splints, clumps missing from his hair, and deep purple bruising all over his body. His breath crackles in his bruised windpipe; he's been forcing himself to swallow the contents of three bottles of water past the ring of finger marks on his throat in a vain effort to clear his voice. Truthfully, it only makes breathing that much harder. 

Jarvis reaches out to take the now-empty bottle with one hand, eyes on the road and other hand on the wheel. He'd come to the hospital Tony had walked himself to when the child had gotten ahold of the phone at the front desk. Tony hadn't seen him cry since the last time he'd been kidnapped, age seven and four months and twenty-nine days. He felt bad for it and apologized, but that only made Jarvis hug him closer -- as gently as the aging man possibly could. 

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you," he'd whispered. 

Tony's thinking of that now. Clearly he needs someone to protect him, since he's too young and Jarvis is too old. 

The car turns, and suddenly they're driving by Stark Manor. The manor takes up a whole block, so it's a bit of driving until they reach the wrought iron gates that open to the driveway. Tony struggles to unbuckle his seatbelt with one hand until Jarvis helps. 

"You're supposed to stay belted in, young man," Jarvis admonishes, but since he's helping Tony figures he doesn't mind all that much. 

"Aw, Jarvis," he complains, "you always let me when we get to the driveway."

The butler heaves a put-upon sigh, smiling fondly. "You're right, you win. But stay in your seat!" 

"Yes, Jarvis," Tony says obediently. They both know he won't. 

The driveway is more of a sight than the city itself. Topiaries litter the lawn, strategically placed lumps of bush Tony never understood. If they were more interesting shapes, maybe. There are sculptures between the topiaries, colorful trees lining the cement walls around the mansion. The grounds go on forever, he sometimes thinks, even though his brain tells him exactly how big the place is, down to centimeters, just by looking. It kind of ruins the fun. 

The mansion looms ahead, all dark windows and polished doors. Tony finds himself shrinking into the passenger seat the closer they get, mindful of his injuries but nervous all the same. He wonders if his parents even noticed he was gone for a week. Maybe they're worried. Maybe they're fighting. Maybe his father is out looking for Captain Rogers again. 

Jarvis parks by the fountain, gets out, and helps him out of the car. The valet slips into the car and drives away when they reach the doors. The butler holds Tony's hand as they walk in, and Tony's grateful for it. Nobody's ever in the foyer, even though it's kept unnaturally clean like the rest of the house. It's discomfiting, to say the least. 

"I'll make some cookies, shall I?" Jarvis says into the empty silence. He tugs on Tony's hand. "Would you like to help?"

"No, thank you, Jarvis," Tony says, voice small in the silence. He swallows, straightens his back despite the ache. "I should go talk to Mr Stark." 

"Of course," Jarvis agrees quietly. "Hurry along to the kitchen after, all right?"

"Yes, Jarvis," Tony says, and hugs him. "Thank you," he mumbles into his butler's waistcoat. They stand there for a little while, and when Jarvis starts sniffling again he lets go. 

"Go on," Jarvis says, shooing him away. "Say hello to your mother if you see her." 

"Yes, Jarvis," Tony repeats, and goes to find his father. 

**8**

When he turns the corner to face the office's double doors, he knows he's at the right place. Howard is swearing loudly and something's being tossed around the room. Tony's afraid to open the door. He knocks instead. 

The door swings inward and Howard Stark's head sticks out. "Whaddya want, boy?" he demands. The smell of alcohol is eye-watering. 

"Hello, dad," Tony squeaks, stepping back. He clears his throat, tries again. "I'm back."

Howard squints at him. "From school? Where's your uniform?" 

"No, I --" Tony gestures with his cast. "I was kidnapped." 

"Again?" Howard says loudly, angrily. "What the hell, kid!" He grumbles, disappears into his office and returns with a checkbook. "What do I have to pay the mooch who fetched your sorry ass?" he growls. "Spit it out! If it's too much you can pay for yourself."

Tony coughs. "I got myself out." 

Howard frowns. His eyes narrow even further. "Not so useless after all, huh," he mutters. He tosses the checkbook behind him. "What do you want?" 

Tony tries to figure out how to word this properly. If he messes up, he'll offend Howard and then won't get help. If he does it right, he'll get what he needs and more. Here we go, he thinks nervously. "This kidnapping was pretty bad," he ventures. "Nobody was around to help. If I hadn't gotten out when I did, they would've sent you a ransom note."

Howard snorts. 

"If I had someone to make sure I'm safe," he continues, fidgeting, "then you'd never have to worry about ransom notes or paying anybody off --"

"You're asking for a nanny?" Howard cuts in. "A bodyguard or something?" 

"Yes?" Tony tries, but it's too late. He's messed it up. 

"Absolutely not," Howard snarls. "I'm not wasting money protecting your sorry hide when you can get your own self out of trouble. You did it today, right?" He waves at Tony's injuries. 

That stings. "I almost died!" Tony cries. "I got hurt! They wanted your weapons, dad! What would you have done if they'd asked for it?" 

"You're not worth my weapons, brat," Howard snaps, and Tony flinches. "You're not worth the money they want. I wouldn't have paid it."

"But, but they would have killed me," Tony protests. He's starting to really regret trying to reason with his drunkard father. It never ends well.

"Then I wouldn't get any more ransom notes, would I?" Howard sneers, and the doors slam shut. 

Tony stares. He takes one step back, then two, then turns and sprints to his bedroom so he can cry where Howard won't hear him. 

**8** 

There's a gentle knocking on his door two hours after he's cried himself into silence. Tony sits up, alarmed, and grabs for tissues to wipe the salty residue off his face but the door's opening. 

"Anthony?" A soft female voice calls. "Darling? Are you in here?"

"Yes, mom." His voice is worse than it was before. Maria Stark steps into the dark room. Tony can't see her face. 

She comes and sits next to him in bed, the light slipping in from the hallway. He sits still, unsure, until she pulls him closer to her body in an almost-hug. Tony closes his eyes and takes the comfort while he can get it. 

"I heard you were gone for a week," she says eventually. Tony pulls away to stare up at her shadowed face. 

"You didn't know?" he asks in disbelief. "Somebody took me from school, when you were late picking me up." 

"Ah," and he can see the furrowed brow, the flash of teeth as her lipsticked mouth stretches into a grimace, "I was on a plane to Los Angeles, sweetie, I told you that before you left --"

"No, you didn't," he exclaims, outraged. "I hadn't seen you for two days before that!"

She sucks in a breath. "It was a very high priority function, Anthony, there were some extremely important people to talk to, I'm sure I told one of the staff. Was it -- Jenny? I should fire her."

"We don't have a staff member named Jenny," Tony says dully, anger leeching out of him. He scoots over on his mattress, as far away from her as he can be on his little twin. "I understand, it was important. I'm sorry for yelling." 

Her defensive tone instantly softens. "It's alright, darling." She reaches out a hand, but when he flinches at the pressure on a particularly deep bruise she backs away. Tony suddenly feels very dirty. 

"Mom?" he says, "can you help me wrap my cast? I want to shower, and the hospital said the plaster can't get wet." 

"Ah," and the grimace is back. She's physically backing away now. "I'll erm, have Jarvis come up to help you, shall I? He's been baking cookies today, did you know. I wonder what the special occasion is. Right, he'll be up in a minute. Good night, Anthony!" And she disappears behind the door. 

Tony finds it in his little, wrung-out body to cry a little more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, comments, make my day. Pretty please, with a cherry on top, share your thoughts?

That's how Jarvis finds him, plate of cookies in one hand and a plastic baggie in the other. "Tony?" he asks, and Tony can tell by the light on the man's glasses that he can't see well in the dark of his room. "Your mother said you needed help with something. Can I turn on the light?"

Tony mumbles assent into his pillow. The light flicks on accordingly. 

A hand on the less bruised of his shoulders. "Tony?" Tony rolls over to face him, and Jarvis sighs when he sees the tear tracks and the red, swollen eyes. 

"It didn't go well, hm?" he murmurs, sitting at the edge of the bed. Tony crawls over for a cookie. They're warm and gooey and full of chocolate, and he feels real comfort for the first time since he set foot in the house. 

He eats two before he speaks. 

"Mr Stark said I can't have a body guard," Tony says, pressed up against Jarvis' side. He's as close as he can get to crawling into the butler's lap and clinging like a baby without actually doing so. "And that if I was dead he wouldn't have to deal with ransoms and stuff. Mom didn't even know I was gone." 

Jarvis says a lot of nasty things under his breath and wraps an arm around his shoulders. "A body guard is a smart idea, Tony. How much money do you have in your begone bank?"

"Forty five thousand dollars," Tony says absently. "That's four hundred and fifty times Mr Stark gave me money to go away. Well." He pauses, thinks. "No. It's four hundred and forty three times, because sometimes he gave me two or three hundred and once he gave me a thousand." 

Tony actually really hates the begone bank, because it reminds him so much of how his father can't stand to be around him. It used to be called the "fuck off" bank, because that's what he was always told, until Jarvis put a stop to it. The new name is a sort of compromise; the meaning is still there, but it doesn't sound as bad.

Jarvis makes a noise Tony can't really figure out, a sort of angry growl mixed with a sad sigh. "That's a lot of money. I daresay you have enough to get your own body guard, without bothering Master Stark about it."

This brightens Tony's mood considerably. "Really?"

"I'll even help you find someone suitable," Jarvis promises, smiling. "We can start tomorrow. Now," he holds up the plate, "one more cookie and I'll help you shower." 

"Jarvis," Tony complains around a mouthful of cookie, "I'm almost ten! I can do it myself."

"Do you want to lift your arms over your head?" Jarvis asks, still smiling. Tony thinks it over and decides that would be a bad idea. "I'll just do your hair and face for you, is that alright?" 

"Okay," Tony agrees, hopping off the bed. The movement jars all his aches and pains, but he figures the hot water will make him feel better. "Please don't do my ears," he adds. 

"Of course I'm going to clean your ears," Jarvis says, mock scandalized. "They're filthy!" 

"Are not!"

"Are, too. Now come here so I can work out how to wrap your plaster." 

**8** 

The next day starts with more cookies and a new plan. Tony dresses comfortably, downs the medicine the hospital prescribed, and lets Jarvis make calls while he faces the office door down for the second time in twenty-four hours. He knocks, then steps back and waits. 

Howard opens the door with a scowl fixed on his face. "You again?" he grunts, looking extremely hungover. Tony wonders if he's thrown up yet today. "What is it?"

Tony takes a deep breath. "My birthday's in two weeks."

Howard looks thoroughly unimpressed. "And?"

"And I wanted to know if I could celebrate it. Can we go somewhere, like last year?" Tony had considered whether or not he should say this very carefully; last year, Howard took him to a meat processing plant to "show him how the world really works." There were flies everywhere, and maggots, and people smearing cow blood on their faces as they wiped the at the sweat on their foreheads. The whole place reeked of death and feces and Tony had thrown up when they left. Howard had been furious. It's a risky tactical decision to bring up the idea of another trip. 

Howard's scowl deepens. "No. I don't want you bothering me. Go ask Maria. I'll," he shakes his head and turns away, "up your allowance or something." 

That's more than Tony had dared to hope for. "Thank you." 

Howard mutters something, and the door slams shut. 

Tony practically skips to the kitchen. "He said he'd give me a present," he says excitedly. Jarvis looks up from a stack of papers on the counter. 

"Did he?" Jarvis asks, smiling. "That's great. Did he say what?" 

"He said he was gonna up my allowance." Tony shrugs. "I don't have an allowance, so I guess it's more money for the begone bank. But that means more money for my body guard. Which is secretly my present." 

"Speaking of body guards..." Jarvis slides six papers over for Tony to look at. "Here are some interesting people who want to apply." 

Tony hops onto the high stool and looks at them all. All six of them are big and intimidating. Two are bald, even, and the only woman is six feet tall with a red, ropy scar across her face. "They look like common thugs," he announces, quoting Jarvis' opinion on his last kidnappers. "I wouldn't trust them to keep me safe." 

Jarvis tuts. "I suppose not. Well, I've only just started. Give it another couple days. I'll give you their profiles and resumes. You just pick the ones you like."

"Can I meet them in person before we choose who to hire?" Tony asks, looking over one of the profiles curiously. 

"That's an excellent idea," Jarvis praises. "Now, breakfast. What do you want to eat?" 

"No eggs," he says immediately, then winces. He used to love eggs.

Jarvis looks appropriately concerned. "I thought you liked omelets. Changed your mind?"

Tony grimaces. "That's all I got to eat when, you know." He lifts his cast half-heartedly. "They only gave me boiled eggs and water. It was disgusting."

"I see," Jarvis murmurs, then, louder, "how about pancakes?" 

"Blueberry?" Tony asks hopefully. 

"Sure." 

They spend the rest of the day discussing what kind of body guard Tony wants, looking over profiles, and baking. By dinner time they've baked four kinds of cookies, a cake, and pizza rolls. They've rejected forty profiles and kept seven. They've helped some of the maids dust, picked up Tony's room, and avoided Tony's parents. It's a good day. 

**8** 

Most of the bruises have faded by the time they decide to start the interviews. There are thirty people, out of the fifty Tony selected, who agree to come meet their potential charge in person. Tony, two days from his tenth birthday, squirms in his chair as he and Jarvis peek out the window. They chose a more subtle Stark Industries office building to host their interview. Tony picked an empty office that overlooks the lobby. Many of the people there he recognizes from the profiles he looked over. He doesn't have a favourite yet, but some of them have really cool skills. "Credentials," Jarvis calls them. Tony just thinks that being able to do three kinds of martial arts is awesome. 

Jarvis makes an announcement over the intercom. Tony takes a deep breath. 

"Ready?" His butler asks. Tony shrugs. 

"Sorta." 

There's a knock on the door, and the interviewing begins. 

Tony's not really sure what he was supposed to do in the interview, so he asks questions relating to what was on each person's profile. When he says they'll be guarding him, some people lose interest and leave. Others want to be paid on an hourly wage. Still others lied on their profiles, or tried to sneak in, or refused to leave their weaponry at the door. It's an hours-long, grueling process and Tony doesn't find anyone likeable or interesting. He's bored out of his mind, and spinning slowly in his chair when the last person comes in. 

Well, he bursts in, guns out and aimed at Tony's head. The burly man shoves Jarvis out of the way and three men follow him in. 

Tony bites at the hand that grabs him, hitting as hard as he can with his cast and reaching out to Jarvis, who had crumpled to the floor and hasn't moved. "Let go of me!" he spits. "Let go!" But the man has him by the throat and isn't budging. 

"I'd hold still," his attacker says, "or something might happen to the old man over there." Two of the lackeys stand by the door and the other goes to press a gun to Jarvis' temple. Tony freezes. 

"Don't," he gasps. "Don't hurt him. Please." 

"Do what I say," the man says calmly, "and nobody has to get hurt." 

Tony nods frantically, promises to hold still and follow orders spilling from his lips as he prays to whoever's listening that Jarvis will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to note that the meat processing plant thing is canon from the comics (specifically, Iron Man: Season One).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people would say this part gets rough. If you think you could be one of those people, please be careful. uvu

"Pick up the phone. You're going to call Howard Stark. Do you know the number?"

A nod. 

"Good. You're going to dial it. When he picks up, you're going to repeat exactly what I say. Do you understand?" 

A nod, shakier this time. 

"Do it." 

So much for no more ransom notes, Tony thinks bitterly. He does as the man says, picking up the phone and staring down at the buttons. In his panic, he's forgotten what the number is. He stares blankly. 

"Dial the number," the man says, jostling him. Tony gulps. 

1\. He pushes the 1 button. 2. 7. No! He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. There's a 4 somewhere, but he can't remember if it's the first or third -- 

"Thought you said you knew the number." His captor sounds significantly less patient now. 

"I do," he protests, "but I'm nervous, so I'm afraid I'll mess up." Not a complete lie, but believable, he hopes. 

"You'd better figure it out," the man next to Jarvis says. He waves the gun meaningfully. Jarvis hasn't moved yet. 

"Don't hurt him," Tony says reflexively, eyes fixed on the butler's pale face. Another little shake, and he refocuses on the telephone.

There are a few ways he can do this. He can sit there and stare until he remembers the phone number he never had to use, or he can call the security help line and pretend that's Howard Stark's phone. He could call the house phone, but it's past four so his mother will probably be too tispy to understand what's going on and respond appropriately, if she even picks up. There's always the possibility of dialing the intercom so the few people at the reception desk can do something, but then Jarvis would be shot. The thought makes him ill. 

He stares at the keypad, indecisive. 

The guy with the gun pipes up again. "Maybe we can shoot him in the leg or something, to encourage him." 

"Don't," Tony says immediately. "I'm doing it, okay? Leave him alone." 

Call Howard it is. At least he and Jarvis will be alive to be yelled at afterwards -- 

The door swings open again, and the two men drop like flies. 

"Drop the gun," the intruder commands. "Now." 

The man in charge drags Tony to his feet and brings out the gun Tony had forgotten about. "Get out or I'll shoot."

"No, you won't," the intruder replies. The man's hand moves from his shoulder to his throat, and Tony chokes. 

"Then he'll shoot," his captor says, jerking his head. Tony's vision is blurring. He scratches at the hand on his throat but it won't let go. 

"If you keep choking the kid, he won't be giving you any phone numbers," the intruder says. The words are muffled, like when Howard is yelling at someone behind closed doors. Tony's not sure when he lost the ability to feel his hands. 

"Shoot the old guy," he hears, and two loud noises ring out. Like gunshots, he thinks distantly. The world slips sideways, and the floor comes rushing up to meet him. It's the last thing he sees. 

**8**

He wakes to the sound of voices and the throb of a pounding headache. The surface beneath his legs is smooth and hard, a little chilly, but there are warm arms wrapped around his upper body. The embrace is tight, but not threatening, and the voices don't sound particularly tense, either. No danger, then, but something must have happened earlier. Decision made, he takes in a deep breath and opens his eyes. 

He blinks up at Jarvis's relieved face. "Tony," he says, and hugs him even tighter. "I was so worried." 

Tony's confused for half a second, until the memories sink in. "Are you hurt?" he demands, sitting up and looking him over. Jarvis just sits there, in his perfectly intact suit, with a bemused look on his face. When he doesn't find anything, Tony's head jerks up to look closely at his face. His aching head protests the movement. "You weren't moving," he explains, the memory bringing up a fresh well of panic, "and then there was a gun, and they said to shoot you, and I don't, I don't know what happened --" 

"Tony," Jarvis soothes, reaching out for another hug, and Tony leans into it and tries to calm down, "I'm fine. A nice fat goose egg on the side of my head, but I'm fine."

"Promise?" asks Tony, and neither of them comment on the tiny wobble in his voice. 

"I promise." 

There's a delicate cough behind them. Alarmed, Tony whips around, one hand going up to his head as it throbs. 

There's a woman sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching them. She's very pretty, Tony thinks, with shoulder-length hair an amazing shade of red he can't put a name to and clear green eyes. Despite her relaxed position, the set of her shoulders speaks of grace and perfect poise; in contrast, her unnatural stillness and the almost invisible scars on her neck and hands tells him she does dangerous work. 

"I didn't see your profile," he comments. 

"I took it out," Jarvis says with a note of disapproval. Tony hums. 

"You must be one dangerous lady." 

Jarvis snorts, but the woman just tilts her head. 

"He's got a good reason for removing me from your applications, I'm sure," she says. Her voice is as pretty as her face, faintly accented and smooth. 

"Are you Russian?" Tony asks, curious. Her eyebrows rise. 

"I am," she says, with a subtle level of forced calm. Tony latches onto this, thinking hard. 

"Jarvis took out all the assassins and spies," he says. He frowns. "Are you a Russian spy?" 

The corners of her lips lift. "No." 

"Were you ever a Russian spy?" Tony presses. Jarvis makes a noise, squeezing his arms. 

The woman eyes him carefully. "Yes." 

"No, Tony," Jarvis says sharply. 

Tony grins. "Can I trust you?" 

"Probably not," she says straight away. 

"No, you cannot," Jarvis says firmly. "Tony, she's dangerous. I pulled her file for a reason." 

"How many kinds of martial arts can you do?" Tony continues, ignoring Jarvis. 

"How many can you list?" she counters. 

"Tony --" 

"Jarvis," Tony complains. "She's cool. She's amazing. She saved our lives! I like her. Let me see her profile?" 

Jarvis frowns. "Absolutely not." 

"If you don't show me, I'll find it," Tony threatens. Then, to the woman, "what's your name?" 

She hesitates over this one. Jarvis takes his opportunity. 

"Natalia Romanova," he says, "a KGB spy." 

Tony's eyes go wide in surprise. His father has said enough angry things about the KGB for him to understand why Jarvis pulled her file. Still, "I thought you can't leave the KGB?"

Her lips twist into a scowl. "No," she agrees, "most people can't." 

"But you did?" Tony guesses. "How come?" 

Natalia Romanova looks him straight in the eye. "Do you like killing people, Tony Stark?"

Tony thinks back to his first kidnapping, when the knife he had no idea how to use sank into a man's throat. He thinks of all the blood, all the horrible sounds the kidnapper made as he died. Thinks of how, when he tugged on the knife, it slid out easily and blood spurted onto his face. Thinks of how he didn't understand what was going on, five years old and no longer as innocent as he should have been. 

She can see it on his face. "Neither do I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please share your thoughts!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, now you're all caught up.  
> ...  
> Now what? I'm totally stuck, guys.

Ms Romanova goes home with them. She sits on a kitchen stool, sipping tea and answering calmly as Tony quizzes her about the contents of her profile ("Can you really speak eleven languages?" he asks, so she says yes in all eleven). They talk for hours ("what are your thoughts on cookies?" And she replies, "I don't eat much sugary food, but I like toffee."), until Jarvis shoos him upstairs to brush his teeth. When he comes back downstairs, he and Ms Romanova are talking. Tony makes the excellent decision to hide behind the doorway and listen in.

"It wasn't pretty," she's saying. "I barely got out in one piece."

"Hmm," Jarvis says noncommittally.

"Do you know," and her voice is so quiet he can barely hear her, "what they do to traitors?"

No response.

"They start with this." A shuffling of fabric, and Jarvis says, "oh," very softly.

"I wasn't lying," she continues. "Today's the first day I've answered someone's questions truthfully since I was three."

There's a silence, so long that Tony wonders if maybe he should come in, but then Jarvis speaks again. "Why did you stop those men?" he asks.

Ms Romanova huffs out a laugh. "I decided getting room, board and four thousand dollars a month to live with a kid is worth it."

"Smart choice," he says dryly. "May you live to regret that decision."

"It's better than any life I could end up in otherwise," and she sounds so sure of that. "If it's not one shady agency who wants me on a leash it's another."

"As the Widow," Jarvis guesses, "correct?"

"That's correct. And for the record, I'm not a cannibal."

That surprises a laugh out of the old man. "I should hope not."

"I'm thinking you know more than the typical butler," she says idly. "What were you up to before you got to wiping the snot off a kid's face?"

"Would it be too cliche to say World War II?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Keep telling yourself that."

Another silence, more comfortable this time. Tony quietly inches backwards, then jumps noisily down the stairs. They look up as he bounces into the room.

"You guys are boring," he whines. "Don't adults know how to talk? Did you just sit there like statues?" He peers into Ms Romanova's teacup. "Ms Romanova didn't even drink her tea!"

"About that," she says, a thoughtful expression on her face, "how about we change it to Romanoff?

Tony blinks. "Why?"

"Because certain nosy folks," she glances in Jarvis' direction, whose expression is the picture of elderly innocence, "might be curious if they hear something else. Lay off the Ms, too," she adds. "That just makes me feel old."

Tony knows better than to fall into that trap. "So can I call you Natalia?"

"Natasha's fine," she corrects.

"Tasha?"

"Do you like your plaster the way it is?"

Tony gulps. "Yes, Natasha."

She smiles, all sharp teeth and razor wit. "Good." She stands, walks over to the sink and rinses her cup out. "Thank you for the tea, Jarvis. It was excellent."

"Of course, Miss Romanoff," Jarvis says pleasently. "Tony will show you to your room. Tomorrow we'll send for your things."

She narrows her eyes at his bland smile. "Did you think I gave you the real address?"

"Did you think we didn't see right through that?" Jarvis challenges. "Good night, Miss Romanoff." Tony gives him a quick hug before waving for Natasha to follow him.

"So I was thinking you'd have a bedroom on my floor? There's a room that connects to mine, but..." He shrugs. "They all have furniture."

"The connecting room is fine," she decides. Two flights of stairs and a right turn past seven doors later, they arrive at Tony's room. "Bit of a walk," she observes.

"It's not bad," Tony says. "Jarvis says I need the exercise anyways." He opens the door, gesturing for her to follow. "There's a lot of stuff on my floor," he says apologetically. "Wires and metal and stuff. But there's a path, so you can get around. The bathroom's right there," he points at the brown door in the west wall. "There are extra toothbrushes and toothpaste there. On the other side of the bathroom is the door to your room."

"I'll figure everything out," she promises. "You look tired."

"I'm not," he assures her, but of course this is when he yawns. She smirks. "Sure."

"Well... good night."

"Mr Stark?"

"Please don't call me that," he sighs. "Mr Stark is my dad. It makes me sound old."

"Okay... Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do you want a live-in body guard?"

Tony stares at his bed. "Because when I was seven they took me from my old room."

She seems to understand this is a sore subject. "Your old room?"

"On the first floor." He hesitates, considers how he feels about that. "I can show you, if you like?"

"Maybe," is all she says, and Tony's grateful for it. He yawns again.

"Good night," he says again. She doesn't answer.

**8**

Tony's having a nightmare. He knows it can't be real, because Howard and Maria are there, sitting with Tony and Jarvis on the patio they've never set foot on drinking tea and having a polite conversation.

"You've got a good head on your shoulders, Tony," Howard says, and he's smiling. "You wanna show me what you've been working on this evening?"

Tony's smiling, too, feeling lighter than he has in years. There's no cast on his arm, no yellow bruising or sharp pains and he can see clearly out of both eyes. "Yeah," he answers honestly, and doesn't even consider questioning his father's motives.

"Tony," Maria chides, and it's 'Tony', not 'Anthony', for the first time in his life but not in this world, not in this strange reality. She's been with him every step of his life, and Jarvis has never had to teach him what his parents should have. Jarvis is a friend, a tutor, a fellow prankster who roams the halls and makes things difficult for the maids before laughing and helping them clean up the mess together.

Jarvis is smiling, too, carefree, like he's never had to worry about anything his whole life. He's always been a butler, has never had a mysterious job where he had to know things nobody should have to learn. He's aged gracefully, silver hair slicked back and smooth, every line caused by years of laughter and merriment.

"Yes, sir," Tony corrects himself, smirking just a little. His father nods approvingly.

"More tea, please, Jarvis?" he says, and Jarvis gets to his feet.

"I'll bring the toffee as well, shall I?" he inquires, and disappears. Tony thinks that toffee means something. He learned something about toffee recently.

"Where's Natasha?" he asks, but nobody knows, and neither does he, so he's not concerned.

"Tea, master Tony?" Jarvis announces his presence, and Tony turns so he can see the amused twinkle in his eyes.

"Thank you, Jarvis," he says in a snooty tone, and his butler chuckles. Tony turns back around - "sit properly, Tony, dear" - and watches the teapot lower to his gold-trimmed china cup. A blue tin filled with coffee sits next to his napkin. A drop of red on the white tablecloth. He hears Jarvis suck in a breath behind him. Tony scoots a little to the left so the man can see better; as he thought, the teapot dips smoothly and a deep red tea fills his cup. A small curl of steam curls above the cup.

"Oh my," Jarvis mutters, and Tony sees the red tea all over the table. His head tilts to look Jarvis in the face, but he flinches instead when hot droplets spatter his cheeks.

"Jarvis?" He grabs the napkin and rubs his face clean with it. "Do you need help?"

"I'm fine, master Tony," is the reply, but the teapot falls onto his cup. China and blood spills everywhere, and Tony licks the liquid off his lips. Then Jarvis is in front of him and his parents aren't, the butler's hands pressed to a gaping wound in his stomach.

"Would you like a toffee?" he asks in a normal tone, deathly pale and swaying on his feet.

Tony asks, "Where's Natasha?" and gets meaty hands pulling tight on his hair instead of an answer.

"Shouldn't be relying on women to come save you," a guttural voice says behind him, grating like crunching glass and terrifying as a gun to the head, but the face above him is Howard's. "You don't need no goddamn body guard. Get yourself out."

The hands wrap around his throat and Tony knows he's been here before. He reaches for the toffee tin, calls for Natasha again.

"Shut up and drink your tea," Howard commands, but if Tony can't even get air into his lungs, how is he supposed to drink tea? Helpless tears spill down his cheeks instead, an unhappy medium.

"Quit crying," Howard spits. "You're a Stark, not a child!"

A shadow emerges from the black void around him. It's Maria, only it's not. She's ten feet tall and faceless, nothing but a pearlescent smile above a meaningless body.

"Anthony," the creature coos, jewelry sparkling in the darkness. A lacquered nail taps at his cheek, digging in. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at school this time of day." A small laugh. The nail drags down his face and slips away. "Have fun with your father, sweetling, I'll see you next week."

And then she's gone, and Jarvis is curled up on the ground twenty feet away, and Tony says, "Natasha?"

Howard shakes him roughly. "Did you think I wouldn't find out about your new nanny?" Tony sobs. "It's bad enough I let you keep the butler around. Then you go behind my back and hire a woman to protect you? She's more useless than you are."

Tony grabs for the toffee tin. "Where's Natasha?" he asks, and Howard laughs. It's a terrible sound.

"Gone," is the answer.

She's standing next to Jarvis. "Natasha," Tony cries, but she doesn't move. Words are written in deep red tea, all over her face and arms. 'Murderer,' her forehead reads, and the word repeats in ten other languages.

"Do you want a toffee?" Jarvis says at her feet, but his mouth isn't moving and his eyes are cold. Hands come out of nowhere and grab Natasha, tugging on her blouse and pants, smearing the blood on her face and arms and Tony screams for her but she doesn't react at all. Then she's gone, and Jarvis is gone, and the hands are gone, and Tony's left curled up on his chair in complete darkness.

The toffee tin is empty.

 

He bolts upright at a loud banging noise, staring through the blackness at Natasha, barefoot in a tanktop and pajama pants with a gun in her hand. She jerks her head around, predatory and dangerous, before focusing on him.

Tony jumps to his feet, knocking the chair over, and tackles her with a desperate hug. "You're back," he says into her stomach, "you came back."

**8**

Natasha is stiff as a board under his hands, holding herself still long enough for him to relax before almost twitching away from the contact. Her mouth twitches downwards.

"Are you hurt?" she asks.

Tony looks up at her face, takes in her expressionless features. She's staring straight ahead, arms at her sides. Blackness yawns behind her and Tony swears he can see movement. He doesn't realize he's made a sound until her brow creases and she reaches behind her, into the darkness. The bathroom light flicks on, accompanied by the rattling sound of the fan whirring to life. Tony's breath gusts out of him.

"Oh," he says, and he's not sure when he realized this isn't a dream anymore. He turns and shuffles back to bed.

"Tony?" Natasha's still standing in the lit up doorway.

"'S just a dream," he mumbles into the pillow. "S'rry."

There's a moment of silence, broken by his own squeak of surprise as fingers graze his arms. "Is there," and her voice is a little wary now, "anything I can do?"

Tony rolls his head to look up at her, squinting. "You're my bodyguard," he says, "but you can't protect me from my dreams."

The slight frown lifts a little. "No," she acknowledges, and where did her gun go? "But talking about it helps."

Tony makes a face. "You're not my nanny," he says, but it's less of a protest and more of an accusation. That... yeah, that sounded terrible. "Sorry," he says again.

She just nods. "Is Jarvis your nanny?"

"No?"

"Does he help you when you have nightmares?" And there's a challenging gleam in her eye.

"Yes," Tony replies, considering this idea.

"So why can't I?"

"I don't really remember what happened," he confesses, and it's true. There are bits and pieces, flashes of terror and blood on his hands, but that's it. The memories slipped away when he wasn't looking. He's not sure whether that's a good thing or not.

"I see," she says, and he thinks she reallly does.

"What does Jarvis do for you when you wake up like this?"

"Um," Tony says, confused, "we get juice and tinker for half an hour. Then he makes me brush my teeth and go back to bed."

"Tinker?" Natasha echoes, head tilted. Tony sits up in bed.

"Yeah. We sit on the rug over there," he points behind him, "and make stuff with whatever's around."

Natasha looks around the room. "Then let's get some juice," she says decisively.

"Really?" he asks, surprised.

She shrugs. "Why not?" She goes to his door, cracks it open. Her eyes shine in the hallway light. "If you go downstairs, I have to make sure you're safe. Bodyguard duties, twenty-four/seven."

Tony grins. "Yeah, okay."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Thanks so much for the support and suggestions; you really helped me out. Some things I've remembered from my initial plans, and some are brand new brilliant ideas I'm thrilled to work with. I definitely have a solid plot now -- the only thing to do is find a way to crawl along and connect the dots. Thus, each chapter will be about this short from here on out, and possibly less often. I've never done a fic working from the past up to the present before, so it's a real challenege. 
> 
> Thanks again for the love! Eventually I'll make it to a device with a keyboard so I can reply to your comments. XD

"Who are you?" Howard demands, half drunk and lashing out at anyone in his way. Tony tries stay silent as he stares, wide-eyed, from around the corner at Natasha. She's carrying a box of scrap metal from the mail, curls tucked into a loose ponytail and minimal makeup applied.

"My name is Jenny, sir," she replies instantly, and Tony has to clap a hand over his mouth to muffle the tiny snort of laughter because he told her the story of his most recent encounter with his mother and it had been clear she had no idea what to do with it. "I was hired last week." 

He squints. "As what?"

"Cleaning services," she answers with a winning smile. Howard pointedly looks her up and down, taking in her dark grey t-shirt, ratty jeans, and purple sock feet with a disdainful expression.

"Then where's your uniform?" he asks suspiciously. "And why are you carrying mail?" 

"Mr Jarvis has yet to receive a dress fitted to my size," Natasha says, eyes cast to the floor in apparent shame and discomfort. Tony knows full well she's nothing short of comfortable dressed as she is. "I apologize for my appearance -- I was assigned to the lower floors until I could come in uniform, but today I had a box to deliver to the young master's room --"

Oh no. Tony bites his lip and hopes his forehead thunking on the wall doesn't make any noise. 'Young master,' he thinks gleefully. She's never going to hear the end of this. 

"I see. What's in the box?"

"I'm afraid I don't know that, sir." 

"Then why does it look opened?"

"I believe Mr Jarvis checked it to make sure it was for the young master," she explains. Tony admires her ability to make things up on the spot like that, and actively wishes he could do it too, until he thinks of it as lying and abruptly begins to wonder how much she's told him that she's come up with on the fly. 

"Let me see the box," Howard says, and Tony knows she can't deny him the right, but if he sees the materials in it he'll take it away; everything Tony makes with scraps like those is 'stupid' and a 'waste of materials', after all. Grimly, he plasters on an excited smile and acts cheerful. 

"Jenny, Jenny!" he cries, darting from around the corner and making grabby hands at the box. "Is that my birthday present?" 

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him, changing her expression to a neutral smile when he gets a look at her face. "From Mr Jarvis, young master. He said I'm not allowed to let you open it until you've cleared a space in your room." 

"Aww," Tony pouts theatrically, "but it's my birthday. Can't I do it tomorrow?"

Her smile widens; she's enjoying the secret banter. "I'm sorry, young master, but Mr Jarvis gave me strict orders not to budge under pain of vacuuming the curtains."

"It's worth it," Tony insists, only half joking now, "because it's my birthday."

"Worth it to you, maybe," she retorts, and Howard's leaving now, muttering about bratty children and stupid toys. Tony's grin is blinding. 

"Come on then, Jenny," he teases, "let's go open my present." 

**8** 

Jarvis finds them an hour later, fiddling with the hunks of metal from the box and chucking plastic at each other with gleeful abandon. He's half convinced Miss Romanoff never had a proper childhood, and spends a few minutes watching her pretend to keep up all pretences of relaxation she'd held before noticing his eyes on her. Perhaps this, playing with Tony, is her way of taking her chance to grow up properly. Then again, maybe not. It's hard to tell anything from her body language alone, and either way he doesn't want to know what weaponry her hand had been reaching for that morning when he caught her returning two used juice glasses to the kitchen. Thankfully she hadn't stabbed him, though she had stiffened and cracked one of the glasses with the strength of her alarmed grip. Jarvis had merely brushed it off and asked after Tony. 

He's truly grateful she was there for him last night, but he can't help but think that maybe if he keeps going to her for comfort he might get jealous. But that doesn't matter, he reminds himself firmly. Anyone willing to spend hours drinking juice and twisting wires together on a child's bedroom floor earns his respect. Anyone willing to reach out to Tony deserves even more. 

He smiles to himself and lifts his camera for a candid photo of the scene before him. Something tells him they'll appreciate it in later years. 

**8**

Tony gets a basket of baked goods and a new wrench from Jarvis, a check for two million dollars from Howard ("So you won't bother me next year," he grunts before disappearing behind his office doors, and Tony's too busy planning the rest of his life with Jarvis and Natasha to do anything but smile), and a perfect size tool box from the staff. He even gets a red-painted multi tool from Natasha, and he reverently thanks her and places it carefully in his shiny new tool box. He doesn't see his mom, but he smells a hint of her perfume when he passes the kitchen on his way to sneak a finger swipe of frosting off the cake he's not supposed to know about, and that reassures him. 

He's ten years old today. He doesn't feel much different -- he's still bruised and stuck in a cast, after all -- except maybe a little happier that he's got a new person he cares about in his life. It was only by chance that he met her and Jarvis said she's a really dangerous person, but Tony remembers how she let him hug her even when she wasn't comfortable with it and stayed up with him for hours before he felt better. She's a good person, he knows, and he's lucky to have her. Especially knowing that some really important government people want her to work for them. She chose Tony over them. He's still not quite sure why, but he's happy nonetheless

As the three of them sit around the beautiful triangle-shaped red velvet cake and the two adults sing, he thinks that Natasha's probably the best birthday present he's ever had.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many people have been asking, so I suppose I should tell you that, according to comic canon, Natasha was born in 1928. She retains the appearance of a woman in her twenties, however (I like to think about 24) because she's been injected with some very super soldier serum-ish things. Marvel actually classifies her as a superhuman for this and other reasons. 
> 
> I'm disregarding Cap 2 in favor of this because MCU is five kinds of confused and I had the comics in mind when I started this fic.

Tony, at age ten, is approximately the size of a particularly portable eight year old. This makes it easy for Natasha to pick him up and drop him at the exact place Tony happens to not want to go to: school.

To start, the name of the school he attends is so long he can only remember "School for Boys". He doesn't much care who started the school or who it's dedicated to, except to maybe dislike those people for only allowing rich families to enroll their children. It's evidenced in every piece of fiction and even some nonfiction that rich boys are rude brats, unless in his mom's romance novels (which he picked up once, dropped when he got to the middle, and proceeded to give each one similar a wide berth from that point on). This isn't to say people of a "lower class" can't be rude brats as well: he has no evidence to the contrary, after all. It's just that the people he's forced to attend classes with tend to be mean and infuriating.

He privately thinks they must all have neglectful fathers like he does; they just don't know how to manage their attention-getting attitudes in a way that works best. It doesn't excuse their actions, of course, but he likes to think he understands. 

"Natasha," he whines as she straightens his ugly little plaid tie. 

"No," she says firmly, tugging on the sleeves of his jacket. She steps back and eyes her work critically. "Good enough, I think. Go get your shoes."

"But --!"

"No." 

Grumbling, he stomps off to find his nice shoes. 

**8***

"I see you've mastered the 'take no prisoners' attitude necessary for herding unruly children," Jarvis chuckles over breakfast. He seals Tony's bag lunch and slides it over to join the backpack on the counter. 

"It's a gift," Natasha says airily. Tony pouts over his pancakes. 

"Oh, chin up," Jarvis says gently. "At least now you'll have work to do." 

"But it's boring work," Tony says mulishly, "and it won't keep me busy for long."

"It won't," Jarvis concedes. "But it's something."

"I hate school," the boy complains. "I don't wanna go back, they're all jerks."

"Quit whining," Natasha snaps suddenly, and they all jump. "At least you get to go to school." No one really knows what to say to that. 

She sets her fork down and stares at her plate. "Sorry," she says after a pause. 

"I'm sorry, too?" Tony offers, uncertain. She shrugs with one shoulder and picks her fork back up. Jarvis, still in his part of the kitchen, heaves a sigh. 

"It's certainly not your fault," Natasha says, pulling back a curtain of good humor over her tone. "D'you think your school will accept adults?"

Tony actually considers this. "Probably not," he says after a moment. She shrugs again. 

"Maybe I'll use my pay to go to college," she says. 

"Hey," Tony says, perking up, "I'm almost in college! We can go together." 

"Not for another three years," Jarvis says sternly. "And that's assuming you can keep up with your classwork."

Natasha looks positively astonished. "What do you mean, three years? Aren't children supposed to be in junior high school at that point?" 

"I'm a ninth grader," Tony says proudly. "I could even be an eleventh grader right now, like dad said, but Jarvis said I had to have time to grow up a little." 

"I would've insisted he didn't skip at all if I hadn't seen how miserable he was," Jarvis puts in. 

"Huh," Natasha says. "Is it even legal?"

"There aren't many rules against it," Jarvis says dryly, "and the ones that are can be bent easily under the weight of money."

"I see," Natasha says, and Tony thinks that maybe she really doesn't. 

**8**

"I'd like to meet your teacher," she says as the car rolls to a halt outside his school. His is the third limo in the line. 

"Sure," Tony says. "Are you going to stay with me in class?"

"I'm not allowed," she answers, with something like regret. "I can wait outside the building, however. And in the school yard."

"I'll come say hi, then," Tony promises, and she smiles. The bell rings for the start of class. "Class is starting. If you come with you can meet my teacher."

"I'll park the car."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY for the delay. Thank you for everyone who's given support, suggestions, and patience. Hopefully this chapter satisfies.

Natasha walks in the front door and hates Tony's school immediately. It's chilly inside, either flaunting the school's obvious wealth or reflecting the personalities of every adult in the building. At least, that's Tony's opinion; he sort of gets the same vibe from his bodyguard by the slight wrinkle of her nose. 

The woman at the front desk looks up with an automatic plastic smile at the ready -- one that fades when she sees Natasha. 

"Good morning. Are you Mrs Stark?" she asks, sitting a little straighter in her office chair. 

He wants Natasha to say yes, but she doesn't. "I'm his bodyguard," she answers, placing a hand on Tony's shoulder. "I'd like a visitor's pass, please."

"Bodyguard?" the woman asks with a fake little laugh, eyes widening in something like alarm. "This is a private school, Ms --" 

"Romanoff," Natasha supplies. 

"Ms Romanoff," the woman repeats. "There's no need for a student to have a body guard here. This is a safe campus." 

"I'm afraid it's in my contract to determine whether or not I need to survey this school," says Natasha, smooth as silk. "I'm sure nothing will happen, but..." she trails off meaningfully. 

"Of course," the woman agrees, wary. "Now, do you have some sort of identification, Ms Romanoff?"

"Call this number." She slips a piece of paper over the desk, what Tony recognizes as Jarvis's phone number across the desk. The office lady takes the number to a phone a short distance behind her and dials. 

While she speaks to Jarvis in hushed tones, Tony sidles closer. 

"Sure you can't stay with me in class?" he asks with a hint of desperation. "You'd be the only person who's nice to me." 

"Is it that bad?" Natasha returns, raising an eyebrow. Tony scowls. 

"I hate them all," he says darkly. Natasha makes a considering noise. 

"Maybe I can push for entry to your school yard," she says consideringly, "instead of just lurking around at the gates."

Tony's mood brightens at the very thought. "That's great!" he exclaims. "Thank you!"

"Don't thank me yet," she says dryly. "I might not be allowed at all." 

"You will," the boy says, utterly confident.

"And I suppose all that confidence in me is going to make it happen?" she remarks, one eyebrow raised. Her hand comes up to flatten an unruly tuft of hair to his head as he replies.

"Yup!" he says brightly. "You can do anything."

The hand pauses. Her face is tilted upwards, so Tony can't see. "Is that so?" she asks softly, so much so that Tony wonders if he was even supposed to hear it. 

The secretary clears her throat behind them. Both Tony and Natasha turn to see her sliding visitor's forms across her desk. "If you'll please sign these, Ms Romanoff..." 

"Certainly," says Natasha, pulling a pen from her pocket, "thank you." 

The whole process takes several minutes; by the time she's got her visitor's pass, Tony is very late to class. He doesn't mind at all, though. His classes are terribly boring. He gladly takes his time showing Natasha around the school, pointing out the cafetorium and library, the four two-story buildings he has class in, the courtyard, and the schoolyard. She tries to hide her interest but somehow Tony thinks she's never seen a campus like his. It's nice to be able to share more about his life with her.... even if he has to deal with a bunch of jerks when she's not looking. 

He internally pouts over that for a while -- why can't he have a bodyguard in class? Verbal assault is still assault, right? Doesn't that warrant Natasha's assistance. 

But finally they've circled the whole school, and Tony has to say his goodbyes. Natasha stands perfectly still while he hugs her, arms at her sides. She's much better at verbal affection, he thinks, despite how little she actually gives. She doesn't really need to, is why. Tony is beginning to hear and understand what she doesn't say. 

"Lunch is at 1210," he says into her shirt. "We get to the schoolyard at 1215."

"I'll see you there," she promises. He takes comfort in it. 

His class is full of thirteen- to nineteen-year olds. They all either glower or ignore him as he tiptoes into the classroom, Natasha closing the door behind him. The teacher gives him a disdainful once-oved before returning to his list on the blackboard.

More congruency theorems, Tony notes with an internal groan. Again. He may die. 

The hours before lunch pass surprisingly quickly, considering how much he's looking forward to it. The moment the bell rings he hops out of his chair and darts out the door. Nobody bothers him as he sprints down the hallway, a rare occurence he's extremely grateful for, but his luck runs out as he comes to a stop on the basketball court. 

A few boys from his language arts class are waiting for him. As soon as he sets foot on the court their heads snap up and their bodies tense and Tony knows he's in trouble. 

"Hi," he tries. The tallest one snorts.

"Hi, Stark," he returns with a scowl. "What're you doin' on the court?"

"Trying to get to the grass?" Tony suggests, slowly inching his way across the court to escape. The grass is on the other side of the wall -- if Natasha's waiting for him there, she won't see him if he stays where he's at now. 

The group snickers accordingly. "Try again," someone says. Tony shakes his head. 

"Look," he says, biting back the fear, "I have a bodyguard now, and she won't like it if you hurt me, so --"

"She?" one says with a sneer. Tony's mind suddenly conjures up a memory/dream/image of Howard grabbing at his throat, screaming about needing women to protect him and he flinches. "You're letting a girl protect you--?"

"I don't see a bodyguard now," says the leader, exaggerating a look around the court. "But let's just play it safe and skip the parts where we call you a cheating piece of shit, little Stark, and get to the fun part." He eyes Tony's cast like a starving dog would stare at a particularly juicy piece of meat. 

Tony sets off at a dead run.

Laughter follows, cries of, "where you goin', little Stark?" and, "someone grab him!" on his heel and he doesn't get far before someone yanks on his backpack. His body jerks backwards with the action and his feet go out from under him. 

"Just -- let me go," he yells, kicking and trying to shed the bag as he's dragged back to the group. They only laugh louder at his struggles, pulling harder and all he can think of is rough rope digging into his wrists, follow me, Stark, call your father or I'll shoot Stark, do you want to go for a swim kid? and he doesn't realize they're attacking him until the first punch lands, right on a particularly dark bruise and he cries out, curling into an instinctive ball while the memories drag him under. 

Punches and kicks and guns to the head and 

"Tony."

buckets of water and wires and knives

"Tony."

rope and handcuffs and hands, grabbing at his face and his arms and

"Tony!"

there's a brutal snap and he screams with it 

"Tony!"

He jumps. 

Natasha's got him in a bruising grip, sort of a hug but mostly a show of strength, of support, of presence. "Tony," she intones, and he heaves with another sob. "Tony, you need to breathe. Can you do that? Do what I do, okay?"

He manages a nod, staring into her face, the tightness around her eyes and the shape of her mouth as she forms words and he listens. He does what she does. He calms. 

"C'mere," she murmurs, pulling him into a hug. They sit there for a long time, all alone on the basketball court as he cries quietly into her shoulder. 

"I think," she says after a while, "we should go home."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of 10-year-old Tony. This is also the part where I ask for your help. Or rather, permission to pick your brains. From this point on, I'm going to be time-hopping to the present. IF YOU WANT TO SEE ANYTHING -- ANYTHING AT ALL -- whether at a specific age or situation or if you just want it to happen, LET ME KNOW AND I WILL INCLUDE IT (so long as it's not explicit. I don't do explicit or noncon). Bring on the ideas! This fic is for you. uvu Anyways, i hope you enjoy this update!

Howard walks in on Tony sitting at the kitchen counter with Jarvis, cloth in hand helping the boy wipe the tears away. 

"What's this?" he demands. He's wearing a brown suit and holding a glass of something alcoholic -- must be on his way to work, Tony decides. 

"I tripped on the stairs," Tony says, indicating a couple of the bruises from school, "and fell on my cast." 

Howard's eyes narrow. "Why aren't you at school?"

"Class ended early," Jarvis lies. "A kind of school emergency. A student was beaten, I think. Triggered some sort of episode." 

Tony wonders if that's really a lie, after all. It's awfully close to what actually happened. 

"Hmm." Howard glares at Tony, who ducks his head. "And if I call the school right now, they'll confirm your story?"

"Would I ever lie to you, sir?" Jarvis asks, somewhat daringly. The elder Stark seems to consider this.

"S'pose not," he concedes. This is when Natasha walks in.

Natasha, wearing a maid's uniform, carrying a tray with a bowl of ice water and small towels. Natasha, proud, strong Natasha, head bowed demurely as she slips from the doorway to Jarvis' side. "Master Stark," she mumurs as she passes Howard, quiet and polite as can be. It's mind-boggling. 

Howard just grunts. "It's not that bad," he tells Tony. "Toughen up. What do I always tell you?"

"Stark men are made of iron," Tony recites dully, wincing as Jarvis prods a bruise on his cheek. He doesn't much feel like he's made of iron. Made of foam, maybe. You can hit it all day and night, and it'll bounce back at first. But eventually it wears down and becomes this flat, ugly lump. That's kind of how Tony feels right now: flattened, ugly, lumpy. 

"Good." Howard nods brusquely and leaves. Jarvis immediately turns on Natasha. 

"What happened?" he asks, as though the sight of Tony's bodyguard in a maid outfit is perfectly normal. Tony wants to talk about that instead. 

"He had a flashback," Natasha says bluntly. "There were -- bullies. They attacked him, and he acted as though they were kidnappers." 

And then he curled up in a ball and cried on her shoulder. For the first time, Tony starts to feel shame for his actions. Stark men are made of iron. 

"Hell," Jarvis mutters. He turns back to Tony and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Are you sure you're alright, Tony?"

"'Mfine," Tony mumbles. "I was being a baby about it. I gotta -- gotta toughen up."

The grip on his shoulder firms. "Don't you listen to a word that man says," Jarvis scolds. "He doesn't know what he's saying." 

"Sure he does," Tony argues half-heartedly, shrugging with a nonchalance so forced it hurts. "He's an adult."

"And so am I, and so is Miss Romanoff. We know what we're talking about. Your father does not." 

And Tony wants to believe it, so bad. "I guess," he allows. Jarvis smiles. 

"That's it," he says. "Now, let's have Miss Romanoff clean you up, and I'll make some cookies."

 _One year later_  
Sometimes it feels like this -- Jarvis harrassing Tony over his dental hygeine, Natasha crunching a cookie with smug delight as Tony whines about his single cavity -- is what a family is supposed to be like. Ever since Natasha waltzed (barged, guns blazing) into his life it seems like his parents have made themselves scarce, but he doesn't really mind. Maybe he's just noticing their absence a little more now that he's got people who actually care about him. 

"Mmm, snickerdoodles," says Natasha. Tony glowers at her. 

"Don't need to tease," he whines. She only smiles.

"Sure I do. I've never had a cavity."

"Liar!" Tony cries, pointing an accusing finger in her direction. "Nobody's as old as you and hasn't had a cavity!"

Her smile turns into a smirk as Jarvis comes in with a tray of snack foods. "You can have an apple," she suggests sweetly. 

"Apples have more sugar than your cookie," Jarvis points out. "He can have celery." 

"Celery?" Tony complains. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"I've killed people with a cotton ball, Tony, you don't need to get all worked up about a stick of celery," Natasha drawls. She adjusts the skirt of her maid uniform, a common sight for both Tony and Jarvis. It's camoflauge to the highest degree: anyone who wears it is invisible to Howard and Maria's eyes. 

"That is terrifying," says Tony. "You are terrifying."

"I try."

"Eat your celery, Tony," Jarvis orders, waving a stalk in front of the boy's face. "Or else."

"Or else what?"

"Or I'll have Miss Romanoff make you eat it."

Tony swallows and grabs for the celery stalk.


End file.
